The Syndicate
by Northmen
Summary: Enter a tale of deceit and betrayal. Enter a tale of sacrifice and passion. Enter a tale of dark schemes and desires. Enter a tale of courage and love. Enter a tale of shadow and death. Enter the Syndicate.
1. Chapter 1

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

"I still don't understand why we're helping Ravendohlt?"

"We're not helping them. They're helping us," replied Osborne testily.

"What do you mean they're helping us?" asked Devlin indignantly.

"Look SI: 7 resources are spread thin. With Lady Jaina repeatedly stonewalling attempts at expansion we're being put in an increasingly defensive position. We can't afford to fight a war on anymore fronts. Gathering this intelligence on our own would take months. Ravendohlt is giving it to us in exchange for what we were going to do anyways."

Devlin was quite for a moment. The dark room the pair sat in was stifling and, Devlin found himself longing for fresh air.

"I see sir," he said finally, "But I still don't understand why we're so concerned about this? When did the Syndicate become such a threat to Stormwind?"

Osborne leaned back in the rickety wooden chair and sighed.

"The Syndicate is little more then a front for the kingdom of Alterac. The Alliance handling of the kingdoms betrayal during the Second War was swift and complete. Every noble and land owner in Alterac was forced to relinquish their holdings to the Alliance. Hundreds of families were exiled from their homes. It is true these people were disorganized for a time. However during the chaos of the Third War they united and struck back to reclaim Alterac."

"But they are divided again," dismissed Devlin, "The various nobles and their hired swords are too busy defending their manors from the ambition of other gangs. I'm not saying they aren't a threat but they are hardly worth wasting gold on Ravendohlt lies and certainly aren't worth an entire SI:7 operation team. Sir. "

"Not _yet_. The Syndicate has already begun staking claims outside of Tarren and Durnholde. Drug and slave trade has tripled in the last two months alone and, the money gained from these despicable endeavors is being used to purchase weapons and hire mercenaries," Osborne's voice was hard as he leaned forward, "They have already begun to raid trade caravans in Hillsbarad and we have had reported sightings of Syndicate as far south as the Highlands."

Devlin was silent for a moment as he digested the new.

"I didn't know," he said shaking his head.

"No, I don't suppose you would," replied Osborne his voice softening as he leaned back slightly. "Usually we would have brought you up here by boat and given you time to brief up on the matter but, unfortunately our window time is too small."

"So why am I here sir?" asked Devlin, "I still don't understand why I had to get rushed here like I did. Let me tell you, people can make fun of magic-users all they want. I nearly pissed my pants going into that portal. I can only imagine…"

Osborne feature tightened slightly. Was there pity in his eyes?

"What?" asked Devlin suddenly suspicious.

"We're inserting you as an undercover agent in the Syndicate."

"Say what?"

"We're inserting you as an undercover agent."

"I heard what you said."

There was a moment of quiet between them.

"Devlin…"

"Who in Headquarters did, I piss off?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked who in Headquarters did I piss off. Obviously it was someone big otherwise they wouldn't have set me up on this suicidal…"

"That's enough Devlin."

Devlin fell silent though he smoldered beneath. This was ridicules! He was only a level two operative. These missions were only reserved for fours and the occasional threes.

"You should feel honored Devlin. Ravendholt drew from a very select list of candidates. Being on the list in the first place is impressive. Being picked means you're truly special."

"But I don't have the experience to do this! I haven't been briefed, I haven't…"

"That's exactly the point. The Syndicate will be on the look out for the too experienced. They will be watching for those who know things they shouldn't. We need some one innocent enough to gain access to their organization and the skills to breach their inner circle. You –or at least in Ravendholt's opinion - have these skills."

Devlin was pale. They were actually serious about this?

"How thorough can they really be? As you said they hire mercenaries frequently…"

"You will not being joining them as a mere footpad or apprentice thief," interrupted Osborne, "As I said we have no time for that. You will be joining the Grays. A band of specialist under the direct service of Baron Vardus, who in turn reports directly to Aliden Perenolde leader of the Syndicate."

Osborne's voice was cold, "We have seen what happens to those who are caught betraying the Syndicate cause. Little they do would I wish upon my own enemies."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better?" asked Devlin sarcastically.

Osborne frowned, "I want you to understand why you are being asked to do this. No man should have to risk his life without an honest answer as to why."

Devlin wasn't sure if he should thank the man or hit him. Ask him? There was no asking involved here. If he didn't take this mission then his career in SI:7 was as good as over. He felt frustrated and angry, yet at the same time a sense of pride. He had been chosen above all the rest. And why else had he decided to join SI:7? He had wanted to do good in this world and he had always known there would be risk. Still…

"Half of Stormwind knew of my departure! The mages in the quarter, low level agents in SI:7, the mage who met me on the other side of the portal," countered Devlin somewhat desperately, "If there investigations are as thourough as you believe surely they would be able to learn about my true identity.

Osborne leaned back and gave a small smile, "You have a point there."

"Yeah…I do…of course I do!" stuttered Devlin shocked by his superior's admission, "I mean it's not like we have some sort of amnesia potion to give all of them."

Osborne's smile widened, "That's right we don't."

"Yeah," excitement shot through Devlin. He was off the hook!

"So it's final," stated Osborne.

"Yeah it's final," Devlin stopped a sense of apprehension over taking him, "Wait, what's final?"

Osborne's smile was all teeth, "We're going to have to kill you."

* * *

"You, Devlin Kentan, stand here today to face punishment on five counts of murder, three counts of theft, two counts of forgery and charges of high treason and failure to uphold your oath. For these unforgivable crimes you will receive equally severe punishment. You will be hung by the neck until death. May the Light have mercy upon your soul."

The South Shore Magistrate stepped down from the podium after his announcement. The crowd around the wooden stage cried out bloody cat calls and jeers, accompanied by the occasional rotten vegetable or fruit. The executioner walked unto the stage where the condemned stood with a black bag over his head. He quickly tied the noose around his neck.

This is really happening, thought Devlin to himself shocked. A sense of resignation had consumed him and he stood limp and useless.

The executioner walked over to the lever and gave a sharp pull.

It can't be healthy, decided Devlin as he watched the man kick and gargle as he swung from the rope, to watch your own death.

He stood with the other city folk in the crowd that surrounded the podium; the harsh sea wind blowing though is raggedly cut hair and smacking across his freshly shaved face.

He regarded the rough leather armor he wore with disdain. True it was a sound fit but the poorly mended inner material chaffed harshly across his skin. In skin in turn was now darkened by a tan that would make a south shore sailor proud. His hands continued to stray across his black hair unfamiliar as he was with the lack of hair.

"Are you ready?" asked Osborne who himself was dressed in the rough garb of a fisherman. The outfit was supported by a depressed looking hat and a gray eye patch that went well with his fake lanky gray hair.

Devlin glanced at the man before turning his eyes back to the podium. "Devlin" had stopped kicking some time ago and liquid now dripped from the crotch of his pants unto the wooden floor below him.

The villagers who at first had been so copious and filled with dark glee had grown bored and were now returning to their daily duties.

"I asked if you were ready Jarach?" pressed Osborne.

Jarach. His code name. No, his new name. He looked at Osborne. At first Devlin had been baffled as to why he would want him here to see this. Now he knew. He had wanted him to understand that for all intents and purposes Devlin Kentan was now dead. The fake Devlin was simply a physical interpretation of the fact.

It had worked. But Jarach knew Devlin was not dead forever. He could come back. He could live again. All Jarach had to do was destroy the Syndicate.

He looked at Osborne, determination and grief imprinted in his steely grey eyes, "I'm ready."

* * *

A/N: _Alright I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. It was more of a setting the stage chapter then anything else though I hope it was interesting enough to earn your curiosity. Though this first chapter was relatively tame the more mature aspects of the story will soon become apparent. Most of these mature themes will be subtle and not graphic though I do want to give fair warning. Reviews in the form of criticism are more then welcome as well. I apologize for any grammar errors as this was posted pretty late. I'll also make sure to keep any future A/N a bit shorter from now on. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

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**Chapter Two**

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Snow drifted down from the sky in slow steady waves before dissipating on the ground. Devlin held his gloved hands open, his arms outstretched as if to pull the entirety of the coming gale into his grasp. He stuck out his tongue to taste the white flakes on his tongue. Devlin had discovered snow.

He knew it existed of course. He had heard the tales of frost storms that rose from the mountains to smother the lonely port of South Shore. The gales from the Stormwind Mountains often created white flurries and winds that could create icicles, but to see the fields of white snow. To hear the ice crinkle and crack as his horse trotted up the mountain path was something else all together.

The brown dumner that he had chosen for his steed shook his mane fiercely attempting to free himself of the melted snow that had clung to his mane, spraying drops of water everywhere. Devlin withdrew his arms from the sky in an attempt to cover his eyes.

After a moment he let down his hands. He was just about to open his mouth and scold the horse when he realized something. He hadn't named him yet.

The horse looked back at him. "What are you staring at?" asked its stern brown eyes.

Devlin glared at the horse in turn and eventually it turned its head back toward the path. Devlin shook his head and smiled in rueful amusement. He was in the process of embarking on the most dangerous quest of his life and here he was smiling doe eyed at snow and having staring contests with a stable horse.

He ran his hands through his ragged hair. His mind slowly recounted the last minute information given by the spymaster, Osborne. Most was inconsequential as of now but one fact had continued to wear away at his mind. Ravendholt already has a man on the inside.

--

The question had blurted out of Devlin's mouth before he could tie it down.

"Then why doesn't he do the mission?"

Devlin's cheeks reddened slightly and he jerked on his right hands thumb in irritation.

"I'm not sure why," admitted the spy master with a sigh, "I can only assume he's _incapable _of doing so himself, likely due to the limits of the persona he has occupied. I can be sure that Ravendohlt wouldn't have involved us if he could have avoided it."

"Who is he?" asked Devlin, "The Ravendholt undercover agent I mean."

"I don't know. Ravendohlt sent the message of your coming to him as soon as he picked you. He should know who you are."

Devlin frowned. Ravendohlt hadn't even waited to see if he would accept the assignment? Then again he hadn't had much of a choice. He was doing this because he had to.

"Truth be told," mused Osborne to himself, "I don't think they even know much about him. He's in deep that's for sure. I doubt they even know the full extent of his situation."

"So he will know who I am, but I will not know him?" interrupted Devlin irritably.

Osborne frowned then as well and replied, "Ravendohlt seemed to be of the opinion that if you couldn't figure out who he was, than it would be impossible to complete your assignment anyways."

--

Devlin had balked at the time but as he rode through the damp grass foothills towards the mountains, he had more time to think and he realized that withholding the information did make sense in a twisted way. If Ravendholt truly was of the opinion that one without the skill to uncover his agent was in turn unable to complete his mission, and failure meaning capture or death, then he would most likely not risk his agent by giving his identity to Devlin. If Devlin was captured he could then be forced to give up his compatriot's identity. Obviously Ravendohlt was not willing to risk his man.

Good for the undercover agent. Bad for Devlin.

A sudden gust of wind broke his reverie. Devlin, who had been staring down at the front of his saddle as he fidgeted with his reigns, felt his eyes drawn upward and forward. There was smoke on the wind. He looked around him. This serene winter swept mountains ensured no fire could be allowed to stir on accident. That meant there were people close by.

Devlin checked the make sure his daggers were still resting in their sheaths. He was long past the point where he could expect the likes of a wandering tinker or tradesmen. Though surely not in the heart of Alterac he was now well within the borders that marked the frosty realm. As of yet he had not encountered any Syndicate, but he assumed that was more by design then random chance.

The Syndicate on the border had likely recognized him as Jarach Horner, known throughout the lands as the Predator, the shadowy murderer of Old Town. Tales were spun often in taverns about how he had been caught by SI:7 and placed in the stockades to await execution but had escaped in the midst of a bloody stockade riot.

In reality the corpse of the "Predator" was lying in some ditch in the slums of Stormwind an SI:7 knife in his back. It might have truly been possible for Predator to have had escaped during the stockade riots two years ago, and SI:7 had been firm that while the law may dictate the man deserved a fair trial, common sense dictated the man be removed. And so they had faked his imprisonment, just as they had faked Devlin's execution, and a new day had come and SI:7 sat pretty on a new identity. An identity Devlin now assumed.

Baron Vardus was in good standing with Aliden Perenolde and it was more than likely that the Baron had made it clear he wished Jarach to pass unmolested. Still the infighting among the Syndicate nobles and bandits lords was the stuff of legends and he could not discount the idea that one nobleman would risk the wrath of Perenolde in order to remove a man who was to become a new asset to the baron.

The baron's knowledge of him was no mystery. Just as Ravendohlt had sent word to his agent so had he sent word to the baron, masquerading as Jarach, and told him of his wish to join the Grays. The reason behind it made perfect sense. Jarach was on the run from Stormwind authorities and SI:7 and he would need sanctuary.

As Devlin mulled over these thoughts in his mind , his horse had cantered forward. By now Devlin could see the pillar of smoke rising through the air. Moving as he was up the steep mountain trail that capped at a ridge not more than twenty feet away, Devlin could not see the cause of the smoke though he knew that ignorance would abate itself soon.

It was at that moment that the pungent stench of burning flesh arrived and dominated his senses. He capped the hill and his eyes grew large as saucers. Down below sat a string of three carriages, all of them burning, their contents spilled out into the snow. Among the flickering flames he saw six bodies, their crisp flesh the source of the odor he had smelled but seconds before. Nearby lay two more bodies, not burning, but clearly dead. One was a figured smothered in thick strips of cloth and rags but the second, so close it had taken Devlin a moment to even realize it was a second form, lay the small broken body of what could have only been a child.

What happened here, asked Devlin to himself, but even as he thought the question he knew the answer. This was the fate of all who entered the territory of the Syndicate unbidden.

It was at that moment that the corpse of the cloaked figure began to move. Devlin reaction was not one based on reason. It was one of humanity. That person was still alive!

With a quiet oath he clicked his heels fiercely driving his horse forward. With a neigh the horse burst into action, pelting down the hill. Though his journey up the cliff side had taken nearly an hour's time, his journey down took less than a third of that. In moments of landing upon the frosty ground, Devlin leaped from his horse and to the side of the fidgeting body of rags.

It was a woman who lay there. Her face was pale and drawn and her blue lips quivered as she squirmed. Threads of gray hair curved around her worn face, and blurry blue eyes stared up at him. Red stains covered the rags where her stomach would have been.

"Son," she moaned, "My son…"

"Do not speak," murmured Devlin withdrawing a cantina of water from his waist, lifting her up so that he could pour the liquid down her throat.

"My son…" she moaned once more, "My son…"

Devlin glanced at the tiny corpse next to him. Her son? He kneeled in close and spied the ashen face of a young girl. Not the son. Her daughter?

"I must free my son," she cried.

Devlin ignored her ranting and focused on the wound. The rags were clearly tied tight and though they may have been meant for warmth they worked well as bandages. The amount of blood that stained the make-shift bandages spoke to the degree of her wound. Anger threatened to consume Devlin. He was a spy not a healer. This woman needed a priest of the Light!

"Listen to me!" demanded the woman, her voice cracking harshly.

Devlin returned his attention to the woman's face, though her eyes had wandered aimlessly before they were now fully trained on Devlin.

"You must give this to my son's keeper," she commanded in a hoarse whisper. Her hand clawed desperately at her side and Devlin spied a brown papered parcel. Picking it up Devlin moved it in front of her face. The woman's eyes widened in recognition and she nodded slightly.

"This is the price for your son's freedom?" asked Devlin.

The woman nodded again and attempted to voice something. Devlin leaned in closer attempting to hear.

"My family name is Cadderly. My son. You must free my son." The light in the woman's eyes had begun to fade and her voice was but the faintest echo of a whisper. Devlin shook her lightly in an attempt to rouse her.

"What is his name? What is his first name!?"

But the light had faded fully faded from her eyes. The woman was dead.

Devlin gave a silent prayer and slowly closed her eyes.

He stared at the parcel. The woman's cold hands rested over it in his hands. Cadderly? There must be dozens of Cadderly's spread out across the Alliance. He could never hope to find her son. Never mind his current mission! The woman's dying wish rang in his ears. To deny such a wish would be considered a cardinal sin in the Psalms of the Light. Devlin's thought began to spin as he considered what to do. He would bury them, he decided finally. These people, whoever they were, deserved that much from at least.

It was then at that moment, that the snowy clumps Devlin had taken for iced rocks revealed themselves and fur clad man covered in snow popped up all around him. Knives and swords hung in each of their callused hands.

"Well, well boys," cackled one of the men as his compatriots shook themselves free of the snow, "What do we have here?"

* * *

_A/N: What can I say? This should have been posted here months ago. I have no defense save that life tends to spin out of control when you least expect it and this story was lost under the pressing issues of other things. Honestly Zetsuke I'm suprised even one person reviewed and I really apreciate you taking the time to do so. Constructive critism is more then welcome and if this update manages to stir a little interest I promise I'll continue to update it regularly._


	3. Chapter 3

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**Chapter Three**

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"Another unwelcome visitor? Looks like we'll really be earning our keep today eh boys?" sneered another man as drew forth his blade.

The spy regarded the bandits coolly. Standing quickly, he stepped away from the corpse of the woman. Devlin's eyes quickly raked over his ambushers. There were six of them all of them all in total wearing various assortments of tough broiled leather and thick lanky furs. They were all tall, though oddly thin considering their height. All five had black beards that marked what was most likely Alterac blood. Each bore an assortment of long jagged knives and swords.

Devlin reached down to his waist at an almost leisure like pace. Passing over the daggers at his waist he opened the pouch at his waist and withdrew a single silver coin. Hefting the gray metal he flipped it forward though the air. Arching through the sky, it span rapidly as it flew, landing at the feet of the bandits.

"A bribe?" snorted one of the men incredulously, "You're screwing me."

The others snickered, and continued to move forward with weapons raised, but stopped when the lead man raised his hand.

Stepping forward, his eyes still on Devlin, he scooped up the coin. Gesturing almost flippantly for his men to watch Devlin, he eyed the coin carefully, muttering incomprehensibly under his breath.

After a moment he tossed the coin back toward Devlin, who caught it deftly in his hand, before quickly pocketing it back in his pouch.

The lead man stared at Devlin for a few more seconds before his face split into a broken grin and he walked forward arms raised to encompass him.

"Welcome friend!" he cried.

Devlin was so surprised by the man's reaction that he nearly knifed him as his arm wrapped around him. A knife in the gut he had expected. He had hoped the man would recognize the coin. What he had never imagined was that the man would give him a hug!

Breaking away the man gestured with his leather covered hand. His yellow toothed smile growing wider in the face of his men's reaction. By their shocked expressions they were just as surprised as Devlin.

"He's one of dem boys the Baron been talkin bout," he said by way of explanation.

"You mean those Gray folk?" questioned one of the ambushers with a particularly long, dwarf inspired beard.

"Exactly," said the man still grinning widely, "These lads are going to win us back Alterac, or, so says the Baron."

He ended the statement with a bit of question and his eyes looked up to Devlin with a slight hint of uncertainty.

"Indeed we are," reassured Devlin.

Devlin had recovered quickly once had discerned the man's intent and reasoning, though he was still surprised by the vigor of his welcome. What surprised him even more, or less he supposed in retrospect, was how much the man knew and how easily he related it to his men. How hard could Ravendohlt have struggled for this information about the Grays if someone as lowly as these common sentries knew?

"See that lads? Hear the confidence in his voice?" boomed the thug leader, his cheery demeanor a cutting contrast to the massacre surrounding him. "Well come along then! It's a way to the manor and I think I can feel a storm kicking up."

The group began to turn as Devlin asked, "What of these people?" He tried to keep his voice cool and calm as he spoke of the slaughtered caravan, "Shouldn't we bury them? I would think patrols still come this way from Strahnbrad."

Longbeard wrapped his arms comradely over Devlin's shoulder giving him a wink, "Didn't you just hear Gamkin? There's a storm coming. In a few hours it will be like we were never here."

Devlin nodded his reluctant consent, and followed the men, the small pouch the dying woman had given him still secured tightly on his belt. Of one thing Devlin was sure. Regardless of this worked out, he would see all these men dead for their crimes, by his hand if need be.

--

"Home sweet home!" shouted Gamkin over the howling ferocity of the windy storm. "Ain't it beautiful?"

Devlin frowned as he struggled through the ever deepening snow. The man had been correct in his belief that a storm was coming and boy was it coming hard.

The ferocity of the storm called up a past memory of one of the ice storms Devlin had lived through as a child. It was considered one of the worst storms in Stormwind's history and it most probably was. It is said you could not sit a single cart or carriage upon the street without it sliding into a ditch and that fires had died before they were even begun. It had gotten so bad that the king, Varian Wrynn, had even decided to invite city folk to take shelter inside his castle.

It, believed Devlin, was nothing compared to the storm that was brewing now.

"I don't see anything," shouted Devlin over the roaring of the wind.

Gamkin turned back to the spy and laughed, "That's the point lad!"

With that he proceeded to push forward once again and the rest of the group followed quickly after him. The gale of snow was getting increasingly thick and numerous in waves and no one wanted to lose sight of one another.

"That's the point?" thought Devlin to himself mockingly. "The point is that the sweet home you can't see is beautiful? Crazy old man."

Though, he considered a few moments later, a home that couldn't be seen probably would be a beautiful thing for a murderous brute such as Gamkin.

Of course that in turn raised a third thought. How in the Light was the man supposed to find the sweet beautiful home that he couldn't see?

Longbeard –or Sammen as Devlin now knew him- quickly took note of the Gray's confusion and sought to explain.

"Illusions. Archmage Rubinic and his apprentices got the entire manor covered with them. We might not see the manor but we can recognize the illusions covering them."

Devlin nodded in understanding even as a shiver of consternation ran down his back.

Magic users were a very rare commodity now a day. Stormwind was attempting to rebuild its stock of mage blood but most mages worth their salt stood with Jaina and her tower in Theramore or served the Scourge as lich or undead necromancers.

Indeed, though Devlin was hardly privy to the exact intelligence, he would guess from the strained atmosphere and looks of the worn mages in the Stormwind Tower that his country was relatively desperate for those of magical talent. The idea that a single Syndicate nobleman –even one as influential as Baron Vardus- would have not one mage but several mages was a galling.

Devlin shook his head and tugged once more on the reigns of his horse as he guided it through the opening provided by the other men. A worry for another time.

The tiny column continued in silence for a while longer. Devlin's teeth were chattering fiercely now and he desperately wished he had taken a thicker cloak, pants, shirt, underwear and socks with him.

"Are we there-" began Devlin before he stepped through the wall of illusion and into Vardus Manor.

* * *

A_/N: The chapter is pretty short but I felt it would flow better if taken apart. I know that annoys people sometimes, but frankly for me personally, it just helps me organize things so much better in my head. When I reach a stopping point I stop and then I move on to the next chapter. That being said the next chapter should be considerably longer than any posted thus far. Reviews in the form of constructive criticism and/or appreciation are more than welcome._


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